The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B. Griffin; William E. Butterworth; IV

  "And how much money are you asking?" Dulles asked.

  "It will probably turn out to be several millions of dollars. Not all at once, of course. In the immediate future, probably not more than a hundred thousand dollars."

  Neither Dulles nor Graham said anything.

  After a long silence, von und zu Waching said: "And we will, of course, furnish you with whatever we learn about Operation Phoenix and what von Deitzberg is really doing."

  "The idea, if I understand this correctly," Graham said, "is that once this officer gets himself established in Argentina, he will then arrange for other officers . . ."

  "The admiral has told him he can have no more than two more officers. More than that would attract unwanted attention. The next people to be sent will be the families of those officers and soldiers in which we feel the Russians have the greatest interest. In other words, the selection will be on the basis of who the Russians think has the greatest knowledge, rather than on rank."

  Dulles said, "But by those criteria, Captain, the first officer who would go to Argentina would be the admiral. And then Gehlen. And then you."

  "I'm sure Colonel Graham will understand, Mr. Dulles. It's naval tradition. The admiral and Gehlen will stay on the bridges of their respective sinking ships until all the women and children are safely off and into lifeboats. And then the men. And, finally, the other officers."

  There was a long moment of silence, which Allen Dulles finally broke: "Obviously, Captain, neither Colonel Graham nor I have the authority to accept or reject a proposal like this--"

  "Or even to have been having this conversation," Graham interrupted. "There are those who would consider it trafficking with the enemy . . ."

  "Even giving aid and comfort to the enemy," Dulles chimed in.

  "But you have been honest and forthcoming with us," Graham said. "And we'll try to be the same with you. What I think Mr. Dulles and I are going to have to do is decide, first, if we should--if we dare--bring Admiral Canaris's offer to the attention of our respective superiors . . ."

  "Which might well carry the risk of seeing one or both of us relieved of our posts," Dulles chimed in again.

  "So, if you will be so good, Captain, to give Mr. Dulles and myself a little time--say, thirty minutes--to decide between us whether we can take the next step, bringing this to the attention of our respective superiors or not. And if not, what other--"

  "I understand," von und zu Waching said. "I will await your call, your decision."

  Von und zu Waching walked to the door, unlocked it, opened it, turned to look at Graham and Dulles, bobbed his head, and then went through the door.

  Dulles waited a full thirty seconds--which seemed longer--before breaking the silence: "The basic question, of course, is whether or not he's telling us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but."

  "I think that we have to presume he is not, Allen. And further, that he has an agenda we can't even guess at."

  "And insofar as telling Colonel Donovan about this, can you imagine his reaction if he knew about this meeting?"

  "Or that I flew over here to participate?"

  "Or what the President would do if he heard about this?"

  "Well, he would certainly tell the Vice President, and Uncle Joe Stalin would know within twenty-fours that we know he has spies all over the Manhattan Project. Do you know General Graves, Allen? Know him well?"

  Dulles nodded.

  "He told me that he thinks at least six of Dr. Oppenheimer's geniuses are--how did he put it? 'Far to the left of Vice President Wallace.' "

  "Graves told me that when he went to J. Edgar Hoover, Hoover told him that when he tried to bring up the subject of Soviet spies in the Manhattan Project to the President, Roosevelt flashed his famous smile at him and said since the Russians knew nothing of the Manhattan Project, how could they have spies trying to penetrate it?"

  They lapsed into silence for another long moment.

  Finally, Dulles again broke it.

  "I would say then that we are agreed we don't mention this to Donovan?"

  Graham nodded.

  "What about Hoover?" Graham asked.

  "Hoover already knows about the Russian spies. I suspect J. Edgar has some of his best people keeping their eyes on them."

  "Nevertheless, when von und zu gives us the names of his spies, I think we should pass them on to J. Edgar; his spies may not be the same as Canaris's spies." Dulles nodded, and Graham went on: "Slip them under J. Edgar's door in the dead of night; I don't think he should know they came from us."

  "That leaves only two minor problems to be resolved," Dulles said. "Where do we get the one hundred thousand dollars immediately, and the million we will need later? Probably more than a million dollars. Estimates for this sort of thing are invariably far short of what is actually required."

  "I don't see that as a problem. What's the other thing?"

  "How do we get this officer of Gehlen's from here to South America? And the families von und zu is talking about? And subquestion a: What do we do with him--with, ultimately, all of Gehlen's women and children--once they are there? And why isn't a million dollars a problem?"

  "I've been giving that some thought. If you and I suddenly spent even the hundred thousand from our nonvouchered funds, Donovan would be all over us wanting to know what we spent it on."

  "Leaving us where?"

  "With Cletus Marcus Howell."

  "Who?" Dulles said.

  "Cletus Frade's grandfather, a.k.a. Howell Petroleum. He's got that kind of money--more important, he's got it in Venezuela, out of sight of the Internal Revenue Service--and I'm sure that all I'll have to tell him is that his grandson needs to borrow it for the duration plus six months."

  "And moving all these people to Argentina?"

  Graham nodded and said, "Donovan told me the President is really happy that Juan Trippe is really unhappy that South American Airways has established--or is in the process of establishing--regularly scheduled service between Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, Santiago, Montevideo, and other places in South America. All I have to do is figure a way to make the President think of how utterly miserable Juan Trippe would be to learn that this upstart airline is offering . . . oh, say, twice-weekly service between Buenos Aires and Madrid? Or Lisbon? Or Casablanca? Or all three?"

  "Which they could do if they had a 'surplus' Constellation?"

  "I was thinking more on the lines of three Constellations," Graham said.

  "Why am I getting the feeling that this Constellation idea didn't suddenly pop into your head in the last fifteen minutes or so?"

  "Because you know how devious--some might say Machiavellian--I am beneath this polished veneer of refined Texas gentleman."

  Dulles chuckled. "I have to say this, Alex: You realize that we are giving aid and comfort to the enemy, betraying our Russian ally, and agreeing to deceive not only our boss but the President?"

  Graham's face was sober as he nodded his understanding.

  But then he smiled.

  "It's in a good cause, Allen. Now get on the phone and get von und zu back in here so we can tell him he's got a deal."

  [THREE]

  Aboard MV Ciudad de Cadiz

  South Latitude 26.318

  West Longitude 22.092

  0625 11 September 1943

  Kapitanleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg paused at the interior door to the bridge, waited to be noticed, and when that didn't happen, asked, "Permission to come onto the bridge, Kapitan?"

  Von Dattenberg, a slim, somewhat hawk-faced thirty-two-year-old, was wearing navy blue trousers, a black knit sweater, and a battered, greasy Kriegsmarine officer's cap, which was sort of the proud symbol of a submarine officer.

  Capitan Jose Francisco de Banderano, master of the Ciudad de Cadiz, who had been standing on the port flying bridge holding binoculars to his eyes, turned to look at von Dattenberg. Jose de Banderano looked very much like Wilhelm von Dattenberg--in other words, more Teutonic than Latin--b
ut was a few years older. He was wearing blue trousers and a stiffly starched white shirt with four-stripe shoulder boards.

  "You have the freedom of this bridge, Capitan," de Banderano said. "I thought I told you that. Four or five times."

  "I must have forgotten."

  Von Dattenberg walked onto the flying bridge and looked over the side. His vessel--U-405, a type VIIC submarine--lay alongside, the German naval battle flag hanging limply from a staff on her conning tower.

  Her diesels were idling; if necessary, she could be under way in a minute or two and submerged a few minutes after that. It was unlikely that she would have to do that. They were just about equidistant from Africa and South America, in the middle of the Atlantic, and off the usual shipping lanes.

  The chief of the boat was in the conning tower, resting on his elbows. Two seamen were manning a machine gun.

  "Morgen!" von Dattenberg called. He had "the voice of command"; it carried.

  The seamen popped to attention. The chief of the boat looked up and waved his right arm in a gesture that was far more a friendly wave than a salute.

  A white-jacketed steward touched von Dattenberg's arm and, when he looked, handed him a steaming china mug.

  "The capitan asks that you join him for breakfast, Capitan."

  "Thank you," von Dattenberg said, and walked off the flying bridge into the wheelhouse, then through it to the chart room, and from there to the door to the master's cabin.

  De Banderano waved him in. A table had been set with a crisp white tablecloth and silver. A steward--not the one who had given von Dattenberg the coffee--immediately began to deliver breakfast.

  It was an impressive display of food. They were served a basket of breads and rolls, thin slices of ham rolled into tubes, a plate of curled butter, and another of jams and marmalades.

  De Banderano poked at the ham tubes with his fork, then announced: "A ham steak, please, Ricardo. Two eggs, up."

  "Yes, sir," the steward said, and looked at von Dattenberg. "Capitan?"

  "Not for me, thank you," von Dattenberg said, then immediately changed his mind. "Yes, please. Same thing." He met de Banderano's eyes. "God only knows when I'll eat this well again."

  "Yes, sir."

  The steward had just poured von Dattenberg another cup of coffee--this time into a delicate Meissen cup sitting on a saucer--when the third mate, serving as officer of the deck, appeared at the door.

  "Excuse me, Capitan. There is a submarine dead ahead at maybe three kilometers."

  "Can you read her flag?"

  "No, sir. The submarine could be anything."

  "Perhaps it's Swiss," de Banderano said. "Have the Oerlikons manned just in case. I have never trusted the Swiss navy."

  Von Dattenberg chuckled.

  The odds against any submarine but a U-boat not immediately submerging when spotting a ship were enormous. And there was no Swiss navy.

  The Ciudad de Cadiz had a half-dozen Oerlikon 20mm machine guns mounted in various places in her superstructure, all but two of them behind false bulkheads that could be swung quickly out of the way.

  "Yes, sir."

  The third mate returned before von Dattenberg and de Banderano had finished their coffee.

  "The Oerlikons are manned, sir, and we have notified the U-405."

  "Very well," de Banderano said. "Capitan von Dattenberg and I will be on the bridge shortly."

  "Send, Lie along our port side," Capitan de Banderano ordered the seaman standing beside him with a signaling lamp.

  "Lie alongside our port side. Aye, aye, sir," the signalman said, and began tapping his key.

  "That's the U-409," von Dattenberg said.

  "You know her? Her master?"

  "I don't know if I do or not," von Dattenberg said.

  "Submarine sends, Will lie along your port," the signalman reported.

  "Very well," de Banderano said. "Make all preparations to take passengers and cargo aboard, with refueling and replenishment of food supplies to follow. Have the galley prepared to feed her crew. Have the table set in the wardroom to feed officers. Alert the laundry."

  "Aye, aye, sir," the third mate responded.

  "Take the helm, Senor Sanchez."

  "I have the helm, sir," Third Mate Sanchez said.

  "Why don't we go below, Capitan, and greet our visitors?" Capitan de Banderano suggested.

  By the time de Banderano and von Dattenberg had made their way from the bridge to the just-above-the-waterline Seventh Deck, enormous watertight doors in the Ciudad de Cadiz's hull had been slid upward and a huge cushion--lashed-together truck tires--was being lowered into place.

  Lines were tossed aboard by sailors on the submarine, and hawsers then fed to the submarine from the ship. The U-409 was pulled carefully against the cushion.

  A gangway was slid from the deck of the ship onto the submarine. Two men walked toward it as it was lashed into place. One was dressed, as was von Dattenberg, in a sweater and trousers topped off by an equally battered hat. Despite his neatly trimmed full beard, the captain of the U-409 looked very young.

  The man with him was in a black SS uniform, its insignia identifying him as an SS-brigadefuhrer. He was pale-faced, and the uniform was mussed.

  And probably dirty, von Dattenberg thought.

  The captain of the U-409 walked up the gangway, stopped, raised his arm in a salute, and said, "Permission to board, Kapitan?"

  The SS-brigadefuhrer pushed past him onto the ship.

  De Banderano returned the salute. "Granted. Welcome."

  The SS-brigadefuhrer threw his arm straight out in the Nazi salute and barked, "Heil, Hitler!"

  Von Dattenberg returned the salute more than a little sloppily.

  De Banderano just looked at him.

  "Take me to the kapitan, please."

  "I'm the master of the Ciudad de Cadiz."

  "Kapitan, I am SS-Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg. I have your orders."

  "You have my orders?" de Banderano said as if surprised.

  Von Deitzberg handed him an envelope. As de Banderano tore it open, the submarine captain walked to them, gave a military salute--as opposed to the Nazi salute--and said, "Kapitanleutnant Wertz, Kapitan. I have the honor to command U-409."

  De Banderano returned that salute and offered his hand.

  "Von Dattenberg, U-405," von Dattenberg said.

  "Aside from this gentleman," de Banderano said, nodding at von Deitzberg, "what have you got for us?"

  "One more SS officer, an obersturmfuhrer; ten SS of other ranks; and one wooden crate."

  "I was thinking more of mail," de Banderano said.

  "And a packet of mail."

  "Why don't you send for that?" de Banderano said. "And then we'll see about feeding you and getting you a bath and some clean clothing."

  "The crate, the special shipment, and my men are more important than the mail," von Deitzberg said. "Get them on here first."

  "After you've gotten the mail, Capitan, you can bring aboard everything else that comes aboard," de Banderano said calmly.

  He handed the orders von Deitzberg had given him to von Dattenberg.

  "I didn't give you permission to show him those orders!" von Deitzberg flared.

  "There's one thing you should understand, Senor von Deitzberg. I am the master of this vessel. I don't need anyone's permission to do anything, and no one tells me what to do."

  Von Deitzberg colored, but he didn't say anything.

  "Capitan von Dattenberg," de Banderano said. "Why don't you take Capitan Wertz to your cabin, get him a bath and some clean clothing, and order him breakfast."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "And then, when the crate and the SS personnel who are so important to him are safely aboard, we'll see about getting this fellow a bath and something to eat."

  "Aye, aye, sir," von Dattenberg said, and turned to Wertz. "If you'll come with me, Kapitan?"

  Kapitanleutnant Wertz waited until von Dattenberg had closed his cabin doo
r before he announced, "I think I like this Spanish kapitan."

  "He's a good man."

  "And he's not impressed with SS-Brigadefuhrer von Deitzberg."

  "He doesn't seem to be."

  "Everybody at Saint-Nazaire was. I wanted to throw up."

  "Why am I getting the idea you don't like the brigadefuhrer?"

  "The only nice thing I can say about that SS bastard is that he got seasick the moment we hit the deep water outside Saint-Nazaire, and stayed that way whenever we were on the surface--and we were on the surface most of the way."

  Von Dattenberg smiled but said nothing.

  Wertz warmed to his subject as he began pulling off his clothing.

  "He showed up at the pens like royalty. And all of our never-leave-the-port superiors fell all over each other trying to kiss his ass. He has four fucking suitcases, big ones."

  "Where did you stow them?"

  "We took off four torpedoes to make room for them. And the crap those storm troopers had with them."

  "Well, there are torpedoes aboard the Cadiz. This is a floating warehouse."

  Von Dattenberg, as Wertz went on, realized that the cork was out of the bottle: "When I showed the SS sonofabitch my cabin, and graciously, in the tradition of the naval service, showed him the fold-down bunk and told him I would sleep there, and that he could use my bunk, he said, 'I really think you should find some other accommodation.' "

  "Jesus!"

  "So I moved in with my Number One, and we played hot sheets all across the Atlantic."

  "Well, he is an SS-brigadefuhrer."

  "Who showered at least twice a day, usually throwing up in the stall--which was sort of funny--and then complained about how long it took my men to clean up after him. He used up more fresh water taking showers than my crew got to drink."

  Kapitanleutnant Wertz was now down to his shorts, which were once white but now gray and oil-stained.

  "If he hadn't been seasick all the time, I'd have thrown the sonofabitch over the side--or shot him out of a tube and reported he had died gloriously for the Fuhrer."